


Eyes Turned Skyward

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Established Relationship, Homecoming, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Moving On, Post-Canon, Vignette, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 07:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13608537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Tibarn is... well, not bigger than he remembers; that's a poor turn of phrase, even within his own head. Reyson would have to be absent for far longer than a handful of weeks to lose his exceedingly vivid firsthand knowledge of Tibarn's sheer breadth. But he could and had taken for granted how Tibarn fills a room with his mass, his voice, his entire presence. Even when he's only been away long enough to negotiate the latest treaty on behalf of Phoenicis, only the briefest of breaths on the span of his life.





	Eyes Turned Skyward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hyacinthus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyacinthus/gifts).



Tibarn is... well, not bigger than he remembers; that's a poor turn of phrase, even within his own head. Reyson would have to be absent for far longer than a handful of weeks to lose his exceedingly vivid firsthand knowledge of Tibarn's sheer breadth. But he could and had taken for granted how Tibarn fills a room with his mass, his voice, his entire presence. Even when he's only been away long enough to negotiate the latest treaty on behalf of Phoenicis, only the briefest of breaths on the span of his life.

This particular too-long breath had been a summit in Begnion to celebrate a kingdom from another continent making contact with Hatari and then, in turn, with the nations of Tellius. It would defy belief that two decades so wholly undoes a millennium's isolation if not for the ambassador telling the story of a pair of travelers from faraway, mythical Tellius: a fortress of a man and his small, sharp shadow.

It's comforting to know that Ike lives, but even more comforting to be back home and away from the chatter of beorc. He doesn't know exactly when his sojourn in Phoencis had ceased to be that, when carved walls and scrubby vegetation had become more of a home than a quiet forest in Begnion had ever been, but it has.

"I haven't seen you dressed like that in awhile." Tibarn sits sprawled over the monstrosity of a chair that had taken over a corner of the royal chamber during some long-dead ruler's reign and never been supplanted. The other hawks call it a throne behind his back, but only Janaff will tease like that to his face.

There's no sign of Janaff or Ulki now, but that's not unusual when Reyson has been sighted at the border. They do have _some_ sense of discretion... all right, _Ulki_ has some sense of discretion, and the physical strength necessary to remove Janaff.

"The beorc needed impressing." It's been so long since he's worn long white robes and a king's ransom in bejeweled embroidery and a heavy silver circlet that the finery exhausts him with its very existence. Braids and hairpins rest heavy on his skull and soft-soled shoes provide no defense against the roughly-hewn stones. But not even the people of Begnion understand what it means that he's shed the ornamental things of his childhood and moved on shrouded in green and brown, much less the foreign beorc.

No, they need to be impressed by the White Prince. They want to see the ambassador from faraway Phoenics live up to the stories they've been told of how he'd descended glittering from the sky and sung the madness out of a dragon. If he disappoints them, they'll never take him seriously at a negotiation table again.

"And you didn't stop to change before you came running home." Tibarn no longer sounds surprised, merely warm and amused. "Were they that bad?"

Reyson's thoughts pause and shift course at that. He has to consider his answer, because he's not sure himself.

He knows that not all of the beorc are bad. Empress Sanaki is not her grandmother's Senate, is not the man who'd thought he had some sort of right to Reyson's person. Neither are her heirs, nor the politicians around her table now. And that was to say nothing of Ike and the others who'd proven that to him in the first place, nor the beorc from across the sands. They have never known anything but peace with their laguz neighbors, so far as Reyson is aware.

None of them has done a thing to deserve the bone-deep weariness that they inspire him him without trying. The only person at that table who had borne any responsibility at all had been Naesala, and it's not the crows who had driven him to fly home without stopping to rest.

Hearts aren't rational, which is a lesson he's learned well and often but doesn't always apply to himself. He cannot help but recoil from the art on the walls, from the scent of the food, from innocent part of the ambience of Sienne. His first and best lesson in the high culture of Begnion had been on the Tanas estate, and there will probably always be a part of him that trembles in the glittering heart of beorc civilization as a rabbit trembles in a hawk's talons.

No, he hadn't stopped to don more appropriate clothing in his flight from the city.

"Not in any way they can help." His feet hadn't stopped when his course of thought had, and his answer finds him standing at Tibarn's side. The ludicrous excuse for a chair-- he'll never admit that he rather likes it-- puts his knees almost at shoulder height, and for a moment Reyson is tempted to stop there and rest his head on Tibarn's knee. Only the threat of his knees buckling under him keeps him from doing so.

Tibarn seems to realize; he straightens up a bit.

"Do you want to perch down here or up there?" He gestures towards the window. There's an auspicious wind passing through, summer-warm without a hint of rain, but even the most benign weather feels like a trial to his overtaxed flight muscles. That lovely breeze is like as not to send him tumbling from the window.

"Down here." He toes off his soft, useless boots, not even strong enough to stand on their own without his legs to support them, and manages to climb up with only the barest boost from his aching wings.

Then Tibarn's hand is there, broad against his back and steadying him until Reyson's knees sit splayed to either side of his.

"How ruthless were you?" Tibarn plucks the circlet from his brow and tosses it aside without hesitation. It hits the floor with a dull clang. That's almost certainly going to be dented when he picks it back up, but he can't bring himself to care when Tibarn's reassuring solidity is so very present and demanding all of his attention.

"Not ruthless enough, but I think I've convinced them to hold the next summit in Gallia." Reyson settles his chin on Tibarn's shoulder and closes his eyes as he feels the pins plucked from his hair. Judging by the _ping_ that follows, they've joined the circlet on the floor. "I want to see them meet Skrimir."

" _I_ want to see them meet Skrimir." Tibarn's laugh rumbles all through him, sudden and violent as a rainstorm, and he relaxes further. Some of the tension in his back is already unwinding along with the braids Tibarn is unraveling. "I'd ask if you took that whole flight in one go, but I already know the answer."

Reyson should be telling him about trade concessions, formal introductions, and the future negotiations that will hopefully come to pass in Gallia, but his eyelids feel even heavier than the weight of his finery. All he wants to do is fall asleep, then wake up in exactly this same place when he feels less like he's flown an inadvisable distance.

"Go to sleep," Tibarn murmurs without waiting for a response, soft instead of rumbling with laughter now, and for once Reyson isn't so much as tempted to disobey. There will be time enough for that later.

**Author's Note:**

> Reyson's post-game career as ruthless bird politician gives me life.
> 
> Title is from a quote that is popularly and incorrectly attributed to Leonardo da Vinci.


End file.
